


A Quiet History

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Most kids grow up with history, with an old toy, a bear or a car they can look back upon with fondness. Lestrade instead has his own companion, the ghost of the three little words he came to rely on so much. </i>Lestrade spends the night with Mycroft, surrounded by so many books, so much History he doesn't have but wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet History

**Author's Note:**

> Something that was floating on my laptop. Also my second attempt at Mystrade. Self beta-ed so any mistakes are my fault.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, do not own. *sob*

**A Quiet History**  
 

“What do you say when someone asks?”  
   
 _“‘I don’t know’.”_  
   
 _“Good boy.”_  
   
I don’t know.  
   
A shrug.  
   
A noncommittal hum of abject ignorance.  
   
Sorry I don’t know, you’ll have to ask mum.  
   
Maybe.  
   
Maybe was always a good one. Lestrade liked maybe. It made him sound ambiguous, mysterious rather than stupid, which ‘I can’t remember’ or the dreaded ‘I don’t know’ always had.  
   
It’s morbidly funny, looking back on his life and seeing all the blanks, the secrets and lies. Every day another lie, something new, something different. If he was feeling decidedly playful, he would tell a story, make up a fictional scenario that only he knew was fictitious. It was like a game.  
   
He only realises as he’s older that it wasn’t really a game. It was an attempt to inject some sort of meaning in his life. Some story which would have been a fine thing if he had one.  
   
Most kids grow up with history, with an old toy, a bear or a car they can look back upon with fondness. Lestrade instead has his own companion, the ghost of the three little words he came to rely on so much.  
   
It’s depressing he thinks, reminiscing with such detachment, the love he once held for his mother diminished to a dull glow rather than the fierce ember it once was. The need, however, to protect others wasn’t vanquished so easily though.  He had a responsibility to his sisters, to his mother who never knew if she was ever coming or going, to Sherlock who needed him through his drug ordeal and even now. He thought becoming part of the police force would have shed some perspective on his life, perhaps new life, a different sort of way to interpret things.  
   
It didn’t though. Not really. A failed marriage, three scars and a permanent headache were all testament to that.  
   
Lestrade runs his thumb across the lip of his glass, his hand an amber glow as he clutches it. He can see it vaguely, through the haze of slight drunkenness that descends after his second glass. Mycroft’s only had a glass of wine. He hasn’t complained yet, and Lestrade thinks he’s lovely for not doing so.  
   
“It’s nice here,” he murmurs softly, his gaze caught by the room, the dusty fragrance of worn pages ripe in the air. It’s been a while since he was surrounded by so many books; the archive room down at the yard a wholly different sensation to standing admits so many words.  
   
“I’m glad you think so,” Mycroft replies softly, sipping at his wine.  
   
Lestrade cranes his neck to scan the room, shelves upon shelves surrounding him, towering through. It’s not an overly spacious room, comfortable without the claustrophobic sensation one feels in an overcrowded room. It’s cosy to an extent, warm and breathable. He can imagine, see it in his mind’s eye, Mycroft relaxing in a chair after work, flickering through one of the worn books.  
   
He never realised a man could possess so many books.  
   
But then again this is Mycroft Holmes. And he knows little to almost nothing about the man’s personal life save being related to Sherlock and occupying a minor position in the government. Although he knows as well as any other idiot not to believe such bollocks.  
   
Sherlock is adamant Mycroft is the government.  
   
Lestrade would prefer not to know.  
   
“What are they all? Just...” he trails off slightly along with his thread of thought, caught in the overwhelming sensation of Mycroft’s eyes pinned on him. “Books?”  
   
The man nods, smiling slightly as he rests his head on the back of his hand, surveying the room with lazy contentment. “Mainly books. I haven’t read them all. Most are albums on the Holmes family history.”  
   
 _Family history._  
   
Lestrade’s lips quirk up in a vague smile as he stares at the distorted reflection of his hand against his beer. “Family History huh? Must be nice.”  
   
“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” comes the quiet reply. It’s subdued, a wistful sigh that has Lestrade’s attention perking, his eyes rising to meet those of Mycroft whose expression is carefully neutral as he regards the detective with a soft smile. “Sadly not many appreciate the gifts of history.”  
   
“You can say that again.” The words are laced with a bite of bitterness he hadn’t intended to include. However some feelings are just too volatile to let go, the sensations festering for years and years until they’re ugly. Lestrade, as any other person in society, tries his best to hide them, to pummel them deeply and lock them away in the small box in his head, unwilling to let them loose.  
   
Occasionally however they are just too strong.  
   
He doesn’t think he’s a resentful man, not really. He tries to be patient and tries to be objective. He is, unfortunately, too forgiving and it’s hurt him more times than he can remember. But it’s a feat he cannot so easily eradicate and it stings when he stretches out such forgiveness for it to be shot down and destroyed.  
   
Mycroft watches but says nothing when Lestrade sets his scotch down, rising to walk toward a shelf, staring up at it. He runs a finger along a worn spine, the leathery green covering cracked and broken across the bottom. It’s dusty, the pages yellowed from age, brittle like his own bones on a cold morning. His fingers trace more spines, like dancing down someone’s back, touching their skin and his thoughts immediately descend to the man sitting behind him. Lestrade’s cheeks flush.  
   
“You’re lucky,” he comments, his thoughts shuttering quickly. “You’ve got all these. Must be years old hmm?”  
   
“I should think so yes,” Mycroft replies softly. “And why would I be lucky?”  
   
Lestrade shrugs, he doesn’t know what else to do, what other gesture to make that would best surmise the void within him. He looks at the books once again, hands clasped behind him, just observing, too cowardly to touch them. Mycroft’s eyes are boring into the back of his neck, burning, watching and he turns to feel them warm against his face, against his own eyes.  
   
“Just think so,” he replies soundly, his smile wrinkled and a little drunk. “I suppose you could always do that thing Sherlock does.” He should be embarrassed by his lack of mental coherency, especially in front of the other Holmes sibling, the smarter one, the one he should be trying to impress. Oddly however, he’s not. The possibility that it’s the alcohol that’s talking is acutely high however.  
   
Mycroft smiles, amused. “What thing?” He’s always so patient. Lestrade briefly wonders what he would look like ruffled, eager, his cheeks flushed pink with arousal, with the faint imprints of Lestrade’s kisses.  
   
Something electrifies in the air. Both men twitch slightly.  
   
“That deduction thing.” His voice is gravely, rough with the burn of the aged, vintage scotch sliding down his throat mere moments ago. He watched Mycroft rise from his seat and approach him with thoughtfulness, his expression placid, calm and he perches himself on the edge of the table behind the chairs, directly in front of Lestrade. The difference in height lacked somewhat, bringing them to eye level rather than allowing Lestrade a moment of height upon the other. He didn’t mind though, leaning back against the bookshelf, his hands brushing against the spines, their touch like skin upon his palms, like handshakes.  
   
“You want me to deduce?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching in the corners. Lestrade can only muster enough thought to shrug, a wistful weariness in the gesture.  
   
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” he murmurs, an acquiescent in itself.  
   
There is a moment of quiet, the room blanketed in a peaceful stupor that neither one of them is willing to break. However Mycroft soon does, sighing heavily.  
   
“I didn’t bring you here to pick you apart like Sherlock,” he murmurs, his gaze slightly harrowed as he watches Lestrade with no little amount of sympathy. Or pity?  
   
Was it pity?  
   
Lestrade blinks, dragging his tongue quickly on his lip as his eyes avert toward the bookshelf, suddenly restless. He doesn’t like this stifling feeling, pinned almost by the weight of Mycroft’s knowledge. He feels suffocated.  
   
“So why did you bring me here then?” It’s neither question nor accusation and Mycroft’s lips quirk gently, that thin line bouncing into a soft smile.  
   
“Come now Gregory, you’re not that obtuse.”  
   
The secret lingers in the air, unspoken, unacknowledged and Lestrade feels it gently skim his thoughts. He knows exactly why he’s here and in all honesty, he’s completely fine with it. Something about Mycroft seemed comforting. In the unorganised, destructive turmoil his own life seemed to spiral into, never once choosing the labelled, easier path, someone like Mycroft, so grounded and present, was a welcoming breath of air. Something to latch onto when Lestrade felt completely lost in a world that seemed to get bigger and bleaker every single day.  
   
He rises to his feet, ignoring the sudden wave of vertigo swirling in his head, courtesy of too much scotch on an empty stomach, and steps quietly toward a shelf, running a finger down a worn, leathery spine. He can feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, questioning, deducing probably and he’s not as worried about it as he should be. Sitting here, looking at all these books, Lestrade can’t help but reflect on himself, on how things were and what they’re like now. He almost wishes the past was different but doesn’t everyone?  
   
“I never really had a family history,” he says, turning slightly to smile at Mycroft. His hands are tucked firmly in his pockets, mouth twisted into a small, slightly self depreciating smile. Mycroft makes not a move save cocking his head ever so slightly, his eyes glinting with curiosity.  
   
“I assure you,” he replies soundly. “It’s incredibly overrated.”  
   
Lestrade can’t help but bark out a short laugh, grinning as he once again runs a hand over the books. “Must be. But you’d think everyone has one.” He suddenly thinks about his estranged mother, so secretive, so destructive. “Would’ve been nice though. I didn’t even know who my grandparents were.”  
   
Mycroft blinks. “No?”  
   
“Nope.” Lestrade shakes his head. “Didn’t talk about them. Well my mother never. I suppose it was always just me and my sisters.”  
   
Just as it ever was. He’d look in the photographs and see them all smiling happily, his mother’s forced smile cracked. However in his mind, whenever he reminisces, there’s a distinct, motherless cut within the memories, something he doesn’t quite know how it happened. The fierce loyalty he once held seemed so long ago now.  
   
He thinks it’s because he’s older now, finally grown up.  
   
It’s probably bitterness though.  
   
“It’s not as grand as you think,” Mycroft says, his voice a quiet breath behind him. Lestrade hasn’t realised that the man has stepped behind him and lets out a soft exhale, feeling Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder. “After all, I have Sherlock.”  
   
Lestrade can’t help but laugh, the two of them chuckling quietly, and he can feel Mycroft’s smile against the back of his neck. He leans into the touch, relishing the soft kiss pressed behind his ear.  
   
 _It’s started then._  
   
“Got a point there,” he replies, ignoring the swell of arousal dancing in his bones, his stomach turning to water and heart skipping a beat somewhere in its hard staccato. He doesn’t quite know what to do, his experience with Mycroft, let alone men, slightly nil to nothing. Which begs the question why he even agreed to come in the first place. He had no qualms about gender but always assumed he leant toward the more feminine side.  
   
Regardless of previous assumptions though, Mycroft currently lavishing his neck with soft kisses seemed to be the best thing in the world. And Lestrade was in no particular hurry to let it go.  
   
His eyes flutter close when Mycroft’s hand slinks to his front, warm over his heart and it feels perfect. The drunken haze morphs into a warm glow, thick and heady. It’s sweet and turns his blood into honey, into something sickeningly sweet.  
   
“I barely know you...”Lestrade murmurs, feeling that it needed to be said. He needed to know where he was, where he stood at this moment, where his place was in life. After a lifetime of just floating, doing what he could, he thought he deserved an answer or two. Even if it was for something like this.  
   
Mycroft placed a placating hand over his crotch, squeezing gently as the other moved deftly to unbuckle his belt. “And I you. Yet you’re not stopping me.”  
   
 _And I you-_  
   
 _But this isn’t-_  
   
Lestrade swallows hard, biting his lip to stifle the soft moan threatening to spill forth as Mycroft reaches inside his trousers, dipping a single, solitary finger underneath his underwear.  
   
“I....” Lestrade chokes. “I don’t think I want to.”  
   
He can feel Mycroft’s smile against the back of his neck and it’s perfect, absolutely perfect. “Good,” Mycroft drawls, and finally, agonizingly touches him.  
   
The next few moments pass as a blur of touching and kissing. Of sweeping caresses that make Lestrade buck and arch for more, his arms trembling as he leans on them for support. Soft whispers and echoes of clothes rustling as they slip away, breathy pants and gentle laughter. And when Mycroft’s long, beautiful fingers slip between his buttocks, all previous doubt seems to dissolve completely in Lestrade’s mind.  
   
Mycroft’s nails pinch into his hips as he pounds him, that deep, harsh push into Lestrade making him arch for more. His skin burns, covered in a light film of sweat, chest throbbing as his heart hammers hard against his rib cage.  
   
“M-Mycroft...” Lestrade chokes, pushing back against the taller man, feeling himself slowly unravelling, falling apart at the seams. His eyes blink open, staring at the books, at all the history he’s never had, never will.  
   
“Gregory...” Mycroft pants, scraping his teeth against the back of his neck before pressing a kiss on the damp skin behind his ear. His hand slinks forward to wrap around Lestrade’s erection, thumbing the head. “It’s alright...”  
   
 _What’s alright?_  
   
 _This? Is this alright?_  
   
“Yes...” Lestrade whimpers, his fingers coming up to grasp the shelf, skimming over the books, the history. He doesn’t know if it’s an acquiescent or a cry for release, everything within him, all the memories and the bitterness and the exhaustion bursting forth in a word so small but so meaningful.  
   
And as he comes, Mycroft pressed flush behind him, so consuming and so bloody _warm_ , he can’t help but feel right, content almost. And it’s an odd feeling, feeling so complete with a man so unknown to him, among papers he has nothing to do with. To feel so _perfect._  
   
And as they lay together on the Persian rug, two naked, ageing men sipping quietly from the wine bottle, complete strangers together, he finally feels happy. As if finally Mycroft has filled that void within him that seemed so empty for so long.  
   
He finally feels, for want of a better word, like he belongs.  
   
The next few days pass silently as they go their separate ways, their skin still pressed with fleeting touches, sense memory Lestrade vaguely remembers Sherlock explaining to him once, the taste of Mycroft, if not on his tongue, then in his mind. He continues his life as it were, work consuming the most of it, Sherlock the rest of the percentage. And if he finds himself gazing lingeringly at a camera, or at a bottle of wine, or even an umbrella _god damn him_ , then it’s no particular surprise. How could it be? Mycroft Holmes, like his brother, has that unerringly, fascinating charm that both entranced Lestrade and chilled him to the bone. That magnetic pull that had him aching for more, and yet unwilling to admit it openly.  
   
They were smart enough to deduce without him saying anyway.  
   
But when he walks into his office one cold September night, and sees a brown envelope resting casually against his lamp, he can’t help but see Mycroft’s prints all over it. He frowns, fingering the envelope lightly, the sweeping lines of his name written gracefully on the front, before opening it. Two papers fall into his fingers, one aged, worn slightly. He turns it around, blinking rapidly, breath catching as he suddenly realises what it is.  
   
On the black and white photo, a woman sits, her youthful, smiling face glowing and her dark hair in curls. A man stands behind her, a hand on her shoulder, stoic almost. Lestrade looks at his eyes and sees that worn, haggard look he glimpses every morning in the mirror. But unlike his, the man seemed content with his, his smile telling otherwise.  
   
Lestrade realises belatedly, his fingers are shaking, trembling as he skims a gentle thumb across the man’s face. There’s no writing on the photo, no indication of who these people are but he knows who they are, god he knows.  
   
“God...” he murmurs, rubbing a rough hand over his mouth. “Bloody hell.”  
   
His eye catches the other slip of paper, a card, and he stares at it, at the sweeping writing.  
   
 _“A starting point if you will.”_  
   
 _Starting point?_ He looks at the photo, at the smiling couple and lets the grin break out onto his face. Bellow it read another line and Lestrade read it with no little amount of fond admiration. And standing there in is chilly office, his own mystery in his hand, he can’t help but once again think of Mycroft. The contentment he felt that one night they spent together.  
   
And everything suddenly feels perfect again.  
   
Fin

A/N- Hope you liked it! Comments are always lovely. <3  
  >


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